


This is Going Tibia Long Night

by AliceStar



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Bad Puns, Gender-neutral Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Other, Sensitive bones, Undertail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 12:59:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5005720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceStar/pseuds/AliceStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sans always keeps his word. So when he said he'd meet you at his place, and then didn't answer the door, you knew something was wrong. You just didn't expect it to be this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is Going Tibia Long Night

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr, re-posted here because tumblr mobile was giving people some sass.  
> Also, I asked for title suggestions and got none, so y'all get skeleton puns.

   You knock lightly on the door to the skeleton brothers’ house. After a few moments with no answer, you try twisting the doorknob, and to your surprise, the door is unlocked. Shivering, you decide to let yourself in, thinking that you’d rather endure a little awkwardness than stand in the freezing snow any longer. You tap your boots on the door-frame as you enter in an attempt to minimize the amount of snow you track in, and then shut the door behind you.  
   Considering how many times you’ve been inside this house, you shouldn’t be so nervous. But today, it’s different from usual. Normally, you could find Papyrus at any given moment cooking spaghetti or shouting about puzzles, and Sans would be right by his side, cracking a joke at every opportunity. Right now, however, the house was dead silent. Eerie, even. Especially considering Sans’ strange ability to always show up at just the right moment. He’d promised to meet you here, so the fact that he wasn’t there at the door the moment you arrived struck you as quite odd.  
   After shedding your coat and taking a moment to compose yourself, you make the slow trek up the stairs and down the hall until you’re standing in front of Sans’ room. You go to knock, but stop when you hear noises from inside. Against your better judgment, you decide to put off knocking and listen for a moment instead.  
   You hear a low rumble, followed by a sharp gasp, and what sounded to you like a moan just barely escaping clenched teeth. You wonder if maybe you heard something you shouldn’t have, and your brain wanders from possibility to possibility until you realize that you’ve been standing there, hand outstretched, for almost a minute. “It’s not what you think,” you reassure yourself under your breath, “he’s just finally using that treadmill in his room, that’s all.”  
   Pushing your previous thoughts from your mind, you finally manage to knock on his door.  
   But he doesn’t answer. You try again – louder this time – but your efforts seem wasted. Concerned now, you hastily walk to the middle of the hallway and pry the painting there from the wall. Papyrus had mentioned that Sans keeps an extra room key there, in case of emergencies. Before now, you could never think of an instance where this would be useful, but in this moment you’re extremely grateful for his foresight. You haphazardly remove the key from its scotch tape prison on the back of the painting, and rush back to Sans’ door, knocking one final time, to no avail, before unlocking the door yourself.  
   You were right in one sense. It was not what you were expecting. But Sans wasn’t working out. In fact, he was lying in bed, sheets tangled around his legs, with sweat forming on his somehow furrowed brow. He looked terrible. You had never seen Sans so much as flinch, so this was incredibly jarring.  
   After taking a second to process the situation, you move forward carefully, stepping over loose socks and knick-knacks until you are beside his bed. Kneeling beside it, you gently place your hand on his shoulder and whisper, “Sans. Buddy, wake up.” He shifts lightly, and you can see his hands balled into fists at his side. You become a little more aggressive, jostling him slightly and raising your volume just enough. “Sans,” you plead, “wake up. Everything’s okay.” You rub tiny circles on his shoulder in an unconscious attempt to calm him down, and to your relief, the tension in his face starts to lift. You move your hand to the side of his face and cup it lightly, tracing his cheekbone with your thumb until you see his eyesockets flutter open. He takes a sharp intake of breath and it takes a moment for the lights to return to his eyes, but when they do they are darting about, trying to assess the situation. He sits up too quickly, and holds his head with one hand as you readjust and breathe a sigh of relief.  
   “Shit,” he stammers, “what happened? I was – and you were – but they –“ His surroundings click in his mind, and realization and relief show on his face. He coughs lightly, and the shakiness clears from his voice. Most of it, anyways. Sweat still shines on his forehead and his hands are fidgety at best, but he seems to be convinced that he looks totally composed, and you don’t have it in you to tell him he doesn’t. “So. I’m guessing you saw something, huh? Don’t worry about it too much. Being as hilarious as me comes at a price, you know.” He obviously meant it as a joke, but his expression is strained, and you’re not sure yours is much better. You can’t find the words to respond to him, and he thankfully picks up on that and throws you a bone, so to speak. “How’d you get in here, anyway?”  
   This, you can answer. “Oh, Papyrus mentioned the spare key to me the other day. He said it was for emergencies, and I, uh, figured this qualified.” You hold up the key as evidence, and Sans nods slowly, acknowledging your reply. “Got'cha.” He mutters under his breath, rubbing his forehead.  
   Silence hangs heavy in the air for a moment as you both search for the appropriate course of action. Sans, again, is the one to break the silence. “It’s impressive that you managed to wake me up. Papyrus claims it’s impossible. What did you do?” He looks at you, scanning your features as if they might hold some kind of secret. “Ah, not much,” you begin, trying to find the least embarrassing way to explain your actions. “I just…. did my best to comfort you, I suppose.”  
   Despite the situation, Sans manages to find your flustered speech amusing. Eye sockets narrowing, grin threatening to widen, Sans teases, “Oh, is that all? I’m sure you wouldn’t mind showing me, then. For future reference, of course.” Your breath hitches in your throat, and you mentally curse his quick wit. He is in no place to be teasing you, but as you remember the key in your hand and your earlier snooping, you aren’t really in a position to blame him.  
   Mentally resolving to beat him at his own game, you push yourself off of the ground and situate yourself on Sans’ bed.  “Fine.” You stutter out, while averting his gaze as best you can. Your right thigh is brushing ever so slightly against his, and you lift your gaze only to find his fixed on you, watching you so intently you feel like you’re under a spotlight. You catch yourself holding your breath, and quickly avert your gaze once again, hoping he didn’t notice. You reach out your hand and place it on his shoulder, pausing for a moment before starting to rub circles with your thumb, just like before. “I tried calling your name, and even shaking you a little, but when that didn’t work, I – I tried this.” Sans hums quietly in acknowledgment before asking, “Is that it?” You shake your head slowly. “No. After that, I did one more thing.” “And that is?” Despite his coy expression, his voice was patient, which you appreciated. After taking a deep breath, you manage to lift your hand from his shoulder and rest it gently on the side of his face. Sans seems surprised for a moment, his brow lifting, and although he recomposes himself quickly, the blue rapidly blooming across his cheekbones gives his honest reaction away. You suppress a triumphant smile and elect to continue instead of declaring your victory too early.  
   You trace his cheekbone carefully, with feather-light touches, and Sans shivers involuntarily. You’ve done all he’s asked you to do, but somehow, seeing his face look like that, even for a split second, fills you with determination. You want to see him look like that again. You have a feeling it’s an extremely rare sight, and you just can’t get enough of it. Before you know it, you find your hand tracing his jaw, then dipping lower to brush against his vertebrae. As your thumb brushes against his atlas, he shudders and gasps sharply. “F-fuck,” he manages, “there’s no way I slept through this much.” Your cheeks light up as he calls you out on going farther than you did previously, and you go to pull your hand away and apologize when you feel his hand against yours, pushing it back into place. “But that doesn’t mean you have to stop.” His eyes search yours for your intentions, and you notice something in them – hunger. You feel your chest tighten and you nod lightly as your fingers begin to dance around his vertebrae once more. His composure doesn’t last for very long. In seconds, he’s sweating, and after a minute he begins to squirm beneath your touch.  
   You move your leg to the other side of him and adjust your weight until you’re straddling him. His breaths start getting shakier as you slide your thumbs under his jacket, lifting it up and sliding it off his shoulders. You trace what is now showing of his collarbone, and after meeting his gaze for a moment, you lean down and press a kiss to the edge of it, eliciting a hastily-stifled moan from Sans. You can’t help yourself from grinning at that, and you quickly set to work covering his collarbones with kisses, tracing circles on his shoulders as you go. You pull his shirt down lightly and press your lips to his sternum next, this time tracing the length of the bone with your tongue instead of your fingers. A moan bubbles up from Sans’ chest, deep and rumbling. He grits his teeth and stammers, “O-oh my god, you’re good at this. Holy shi–“  
   His breath hitches as you slip your hand under his shirt and trace the back of his ribs, as tantalizingly slow and gentle as possible. You run your pointer finger down his spine from the edge of his ribs to his pelvis, and he starts shaking. He keeps making sounds like he’s trying to say something, but just can’t form the words.  
   Your other hand lets go of Sans’ shirt, and you kiss his sternum one last time through the fabric. Looking up at Sans for approval, your fingers dip just below the waistband of his shorts, tracing the edge of his pelvis, starting from the back and moving clockwise. When you reach the front, his toes curl up and his spine arches slightly. You can’t help but stare at his face as his breathing gets more ragged, and the blue on his face deepens as his eyesockets shut involuntarily and his brow raises in the center. You are positively enraptured, and after a moment, you realize you’ve stopped moving, and one of Sans’ eyes is open and trained on your face, his grin widening smugly. “Heh. I was starting to worry about reciprocating, but it seems like you’re already having a great time. Which is great, because I love doing absolutely nothing.” You touch the hand that isn’t currently in Sans’ shorts to your face and find that it’s practically burning.  
   Embarrassed, but determined not to lose face, you move in close and kiss the vertebrae just peeking out from beneath Sans’ jaw. With your lips still pressed to the bone, you whisper, “Are you sure you want to keep going? With how much _you’re_ blushing, I’m afraid you might have a… femur.” Sans snorts at your pun, and you use the opportunity to catch him off guard. You position your hand so that his pubic symphysis is between your thumb and forefinger, and carefully rub circles on both sides. His reaction to your joke is cut short and immediately replaced by a groan, one of his hands tightening on the sheets beside him, and the other now gripping your thigh. You trail kisses down his center, shifting your weight back as you go, until you reach his pelvis. You tug on his shorts with your free hand and he pushes himself up just enough for you to remove them. Barely giving him a second to catch his breath, your mouth replaces your fingers, tongue teasing the sensitive area in the center of his pelvis. You prop yourself up on your elbow, and use your other hand to trace delicate patterns on his ischium, earning you several gasps and moans. He’s breathing rapidly now, and you can feel his whole body tense up beneath you.  
   You run your tongue up and down the inner edge of his pelvis, stopping to lightly suck on the raised area near the middle as you bring your hand to his sacrum and trace a line down to the end of his coccyx. You feel Sans’ hand tangle itself into your hair as his spine arches and his breath catches, bones shaking. He lets out a long, wavering moan, his voice threatening to crack but just barely staying together. As he catches his breath, his grip on you loosens, and you can feel him relax.  
   You sit up and slide forward until you’re almost sitting on his lap, wrapping your arms lightly around his middle. He looks at you, eyes half-lidded, and lightly holds your face with one hand. He pulls you in, very gently, and you share a kiss. It’s strange, due to his lack of lips, but somehow it feels nice, and you feel an odd ache in your chest when you finally pull away.  
   “Thank you.”  
   Sans’ quiet words come as a surprise to you, but when you scan his face, you see a genuine smile full of gratitude and relief, and you can’t help but feel like the luckiest person in the world. You rest your head on his shoulder, and he wraps his arms around your waist, and you both fall asleep there, smiling.  
   Neither of you has any nightmares.


End file.
